Debasement is the passport of the base, 

Nobility is the epitaph of the noble. - Bei Dao ‘Answer’

Zhao Haochen

August 5th, 2016, Beijing

As a tour guide of my school, I have just received a task in the midst of my summer vacation: taking a group of alumni that graduated almost fifty years ago for a special trip back to campus. Though I was busy with my summer literature course, I had to accept the offer.

Early in the morning, I changed into my navy suit and gelled my hair before rushing to the entrance of the school. There, I met my headmaster along with a row of alumni. To my surprise, the alumni looked relatively young for their age, probably because they have dyed their hair black. ‘This is Mrs. Liu Jin, this is Mrs. Sun Linlin…. They used to study in your classroom’ the headmaster introduced. I shook hands with each of them and began the tour.

Sun Linlin

August 5th, 2016, Beijing

My flight from Boston landed in Beijing three days ago. It has been thirty years since I left China. Until then, I have never thought that I would step on my motherland ever again.

The whole purpose of this trip is to apologize for the crimes that I committed fifty years ago, and it has always been my biggest dream. I was once a dedicated prospective student like my guide Haochen, but the incident had altered the trajectory of my life forever. 

Yesterday, I met with my junior year math teacher Mr. Hu Zhitao who is in his eighties in his apartment. He showed me his past diaries, as well as the journals of Mr. Wang Jingyao, his lifelong friend who had already deceased. I could not control my tears from falling as I flipped through the pages that have turned yellow on the margin. 

Hu Zhitao

August 5th, 1966, Beijing

It was a humid August noon without a breeze. The fans were buzzing next to my ears, and cicadas were humming their chants in the trees. After teaching four hours of high school algebra in the morning, I was finally able to lean on the swivel chair and enjoy my daily nap in the math department office.

Right after I closed my eyes, A flock of students stormed into my room followed by a rush knock on the door. Intimidated by the sudden burst of noise, I straightened my back and opened my eyes in surprise. ‘Criminals! Hands down! Don’t move!’ they yelled. Without any time to react, a hand gripped on my T-shirt, dragging me down the stairs along with a few colleagues.

On the playground, a row of wooden chairs was already waiting for us. Behind them were the uncompromising eyes of a hundred students. There was a paper on each chair that showed our name attached to a string. My students, who were once dedicated to academics, picked up the belts and mops from the floor that they prepared. They tied my arms together with the chair and dumped a bottle of ink on my face. The black liquid drenched my shirt, and I felt it flowing down my spine. What waited for us, was a storm of whipping that seemed to last forever.

That night, my wife scrutinized the scars on my back and asked, ‘why is our school in chaos?’

“There was no one in charge to halt the so-called ‘revolution.’ It’s pure madness.” I responded.

‘You shouldn’t go back tomorrow.’

‘I have to go. There are students that I have to teach.’ I murmured reluctantly, understanding that not showing up to school will likely result in other severe consequences.

I stared at the empty ceiling throughout the night, wondering about what will happen next.

On the next day, after algebra classes in the morning, I had no more interest in taking a nap  because I was vigilant for another round of assault. With this concern in mind, I picked up a broom and an iron dustpan and located myself at an inconspicuous corner next to a bathroom, pretending that I was sweeping the floor so that I can be ready to retaliate in case of any unwarned attacks. Unfortunately, by the end of the block, two girls still spotted me.

The girl with ponytails pointed in my direction: ‘Here you are. You’re the last criminal that we’ve been looking for.’ I gave her a blank stare and concentrated on my work. ‘Here’s what you deserve’ she continued, ready to splash ink on my face. My mind urged me to resist, so I poked the bottle with my dustpan instinctively, and it spilled. This had caused more troubles. Another group of students that approached me from the back pressed me on the ground and tied my wrists together with rope. They dragged me to the playground, where I joined my colleagues that remained in the office during the lunch break.

I never allowed myself to remember the details of the struggle session. All I could remember was a mixture of the roaring from the students, the dripping ink on my face, the fists landing on my back like raindrops, and the nauseating smell of flesh and blood. It felt like the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

Throughout the beating, I have been questioning myself: ‘Who taught the students all these methods of torture?’

All of a sudden, the struggle session halted, and I was left on the ground. I rubbed my eyes and examined everything around. Now, all the students gathered around the seat under the basketball stand where Mrs. Bian Zhongyun, the school’s deputy principal, was tortured.

"Stop playing dead, you moron!" a student screamed in the center of the crowd in her highest volume. I figured out that the distinct voice came from Sun Linlin, the senior class president. While she picked up a wooden stick from the ground, she spat on Mrs. Bian’s cheeks.

"Could you st.. stop?" Mrs. Bian resisted feebly with a desperate hope of mercy. I peeked through the storm of fists and glanced at Mrs. Bian’s wobbly hands. Both of her arms were swollen with scars, and tears had already dried up next to the corner of her eyes. I can sense the hollowness from her countenance. Apparently, she had lost consciousness. ‘Girls, move out! We have to send Mrs. Bian to the hospital!’ I yelled.

The students replied to my command with blank stares of disgust.

I tried to push the students aside and squeeze into the crowd, but the effort was futile. A powerful hand grabbed on my neck from behind, and I was pushed to the academic building.

Knowing that it was impossible to save Mrs. Bian on time, I sobbed in the empty hallway until all classes were over. I could only anticipate that the students could forgive Mrs. Bian with their last sense of humanity.

Under the dimming twilight, I stepped outside again. Mrs. Bian was abandoned on a flatbed trolley lifelessly, her ailing body covered with brooms, newspapers, and ponchos. I examined the watch on her bruised forearm; it stopped at three forty. With the help of two nurses from the school, Mrs. Bian was carried to the hospital.

There was a spark of thought in my mind that told me to escape, but then, I realized that the moment would be more painful for Mrs. Bian’s family, especially her husband Mr. Wang, so I should go through the hardship with him together. I turned around, pulled up my courage, and marched toward Mrs. Bian’s apartment.

Wang Jingyao

August 7th, 1966, Beijing

The ambience of the night didn’t feel right. Even before I opened the door for Mr. Hu, I felt that there would be bad news waiting for me. Without any words, Mr. Hu threw his arms around me. We sat on the sofa for another ten minutes, taking up the agony in our hearts silently. I turned my head around and noticed a scar across Mr. Hu’s neck, and felt sorry for Mr. Hu for visiting me late in the night. I broke the silence: ‘Thanks for your condolences, but I’d love to spend some time by myself.’

Two girls came to the apartment an hour later, telling us that we should only describe the cause of Mrs. Bian’s death as ‘heart failure’ to the others. If we accuse anyone of beating Mrs. Bian to death, there will be harsh consequences.

After they left my room, I became hysterical, hoping that the world would end. I wailed on my mattress, trying to choke myself by tying a knot with the bedsheet around my neck but failed. Not knowing what time it was, I woke up in a panic, realizing that I have already bitten half of my sleeping pad into shredded pieces.

This morning, I bought an imported Leica camera from the Xidan Department Store with my salary for two weeks. Then, I brought my four children to the Union Hospital where I was told to meet my wife at the morgue in the basement. I took pictures for my wife’s corpse and my weeping children in every angle: full-length, half-length, headshot.

I printed all the black-and-white photos and carefully placed them in my tattered suede briefcase, along with a wrinkled shirt saturated with blood, a pair of dusty pants, and a pair of underwear tainted with feces. When I returned home, I settled the briefcase of painful memories into a safe. They will eventually become proof of a murder.

Sun Linlin

August 5th, 2016, Beijing

Mr. Wang, it is me who went to your apartment that night and sent you the ultimatum. For the following fifty years, I have been engulfed with guilt. I can’t imagine what kind of trauma you have gone through for the rest of your life, and I am regretful for not coming back earlier and seeing you again.

I don’t beg for your forgiveness; I only wish that I had a chance to express my sincere apology from the bottom of my heart.

During my tour back to the school, I bowed in front of the statue of Mrs. Bian that had just been erected. I had no courage to pick my head up and face the cameras around me. I felt like her copper body was alive again, gazing at my face, nurturing me with her calm personality.

But fifty years ago, I made her groan in despair under the eyes of a hundred eighteen-year-olds who have lost their conscience.

Zhao Haochen 

August 5th, 2016, Beijing

The scene in front of me made me startle. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by journalists and their flashing cameras. At the same time, the group of alumni bowed in front of the status of their deceased high school teacher. 

I felt a strong emotion in my heart mixed with outrage and pain, but I don’t know exactly why I felt that way. All I knew was that the line of alumni were accused murderers that weren’t punished. The tragedy that happened in our school was terrible, but I wasn’t sure if those alumni are guilty. 

Sun Linlin

August 18th, 1966, Beijing

Today is the best day of my life, even better than my eighteenth birthday a month ago. As the representative of the Red Guards, I was greeted by Chairman Mao on the top of Tiananmen Gate. I have never ever felt this proud.

I shook hands with Chairman Mao. At the instant, I was awed by the rough surface of his palm. He proclaimed with his resonant voice, ‘The Cultural Revolution conducted by the proletariat class should never stop. We should bring down those who follow capitalism by any means necessary.’ Then, under the witness of thousands of factory workers and farmers on the square across the street, Chairman Mao tied a red scarf around my neck that symbolizes the blood of the martyrs that sacrificed for the cause of socialism.

Now, I am determined to dedicate myself to the Cultural Revolution. I believe that China will become a better place under Chairman Mao’s guidance; he will lead us to embrace a bright future.

Zhao Haochen

August 6th, 2016, Beijing

As I talked with Mrs. Sun throughout the tour, I had a general sense of Mrs. Sun’s internal struggle after the Cultural Revolution. When she told me about her encounter with Chairman Mao, my eyes blinked in disbelief.

‘So, are you the girl with glasses, wearing a green beret? I think I’ve seen your picture with Chairman Mao in my history textbook.’ 

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ she whispered. 

‘So what is your life like after the revolution?’ I asked curiously.

She fell into silence for a few seconds and opened up, ‘Well. I led struggle sessions and punished a few other educators that were suspected to be capitalists. After Chairman Mao passed away in 1976, the Cultural Revolution ended as the plotters behind-the-scenes were captured. Even though I was not charged with any crimes, I still fell into a long period of self-questioning. As a symbolic figure from the notorious revolution, I was unable to live up to my guilt here, so I settled in Boston where nobody could recognize who I am and what crimes I have committed. There, I got an undergraduate business degree. But even after I escaped to America, I still couldn’t relieve myself from the shame and I thought about committing suicide multiple times. For many years, I had to visit a psychiatrist on a regular basis.’ She continued, ‘In 2007, our school decided to put my name into the official list of notable alumni for the ninetieth anniversary. It was totally preposterous: by putting my name down, they are essentially glorifying the revolution. Mr. Wang Jingyao, the husband of Mrs. Bian, even wrote a letter to the school to protest. I know that I am just a puppet of politics, and I should be imprisoned instead.’

The scorching sun was right above our heads when we walked along the pavement next to the playground. We could hear the humming of the cicadas, as well as the buzzing of fans from the classroom windows that were half-open. As we were approaching the entrance of the school, Mrs. Sun tapped on my shoulder, ‘Thanks for this wonderful tour, Haochen. It is amazing to see how beautiful our campus has become.’ She said, ‘I hope that you can do well in your upcoming school year. But most importantly, I wish that you can trust your conscience and be able to distinguish the right and wrongs at all times.’

‘I will.’ I nodded with a smile.

Zhao Haochen 

August 6th, 2016, Beijing

I remembered my conversation with Mrs. Sun by heart. For me, it was unbelievable to talk to such an iconic figure from the Cultural Revolution who have also appeared in my text book before. It felt like witnessing history. However, the question of who is culpable for the tragedy remained in my heart. ‘Is Mrs. Sun accountable for anything?’ I asked myself. There was a spark in my mind that there must be a greater irresistible force that has affected the students in the 1960s. 

Zhao Haochen

August 25th, 2017, Boston

Yesterday, I embarked on my flight to Boston, not knowing when I will return home. As my mom said, my family will settle there, and I will also start learning in a new environment. 

My family’s plan to immigrate all started from my encounter with Mrs. Sun in middle school last summer. I remembered that after giving the tour, I shared what had happened with my parents on the same day. Then, my mom gave me a whole lecture about the Cultural Revolution, about the utter distortion backed by a malicious regime. I was in awe, because my mom’s speech contradicted my positive perception about the communist party. But as I contemplated the history, I realized that Mrs. Sun was just an innocent individual who was utilized by the regime. 

From there, I started questioning about the government which has extended its rule after the revolution. At the beginning of the school year, one of my classmates introduced me to the proxy network system, a software on the internet that would allow me to explore a greater world with a new perspective that has been censored by the Great Firewall. I would spend hours to learn about other violations of human rights committed by the communist regime, and I was not afraid to share my discovery with the others.

In politics class, my teacher delivered a speech filled with enthusiasm, ‘The communist government structure fits best in China because it is inefficient for multiple political parties to decide upon legislation for a country with such a massive population.’

I rose from my chair on the first row, interrupting his speech. ‘But isn’t a single party system prone to making poor decisions?’

‘But the communist party always learns from history, especially after the Cultural Revolution, and it perfects itself by correcting the errors that it has previously made.’

I bursted into laughter after the comment, ‘Oh, really? Then what about the massacre at Tiananmen Square in 1989, and what about the self-immolation that happened at the same place in 2001?’ I grimaced scornfully.

My teacher was petrified - his authority was threatened by my audacious remarks. Then, he smashed the podium with his fist and screamed, ‘Get out!’

I followed his instruction in silence; for me, leaving the class was a form of nonviolent protest.

Within a month, I have been caught up in similar altercations with other teachers, and I even refused to wear my red scarf during the weekly flag-raising ceremony. As a consequence, the school took all my leadership positions away and my advisor also scheduled a conference with my parents.

I still remember the day when my parents came back from the meeting. At first, they reprimanded me for blurting out things that I am not supposed to talk about in the classroom. They understood that I was unsatisfied with reality, but they thought that it was unwise for me to risk my own future. But then, my mom made an announcement that I would never forget: ‘Your dad and I share the same feeling with you, but unlike you, we are afraid to speak out. We have already been planning to immigrate to the U.S. a long time ago. But now, I guess that we should accelerate the process. You should finish this school year smoothly, and starting from next year, Boston will be our new home.’

Then, I sat next to my parents and told them the whole story: my encounter with Mrs. Sun, the tour, the journals written during the cultural revolution, the statue of the deceased teacher, the proxy network, everything. I felt that I was fragile and trivial like a speck of dust in the apathetic world, yet, I could perceive the unfamiliar sense of warmth provided by my parents.

‘I’m glad that you’re learning about the truth on your own, and apparently, China is not giving you the opportunity to do so. That’s why we are moving,’ my dad gave me a hug.

Feeling nervous, excited, but also a bit reluctant, I stepped onto the plane on this beautiful summer day.

I looked at these sources for inspiration:

Also Sprach the Puppet. (n.d.). Retrieved from sampsoniaway.org/fearless-ink/tienchi-martinliao/2014/01/29/also-sprach-the-puppet/

McKenzie, D., & Jiang, S. (2014, June 05). Murdered for Mao: The killings China 'forgot'. Retrieved from cnn.com/2014/06/04/world/asia/china-maoist-scars/index.html

Saussy, H. (1999). Bei Dao and his Audiences. Retrieved February 28, 2019, from prelectur.stanford.edu/lecturers/dao/daoaudience.html

那天，我是殘殺卞仲耘的目擊者之一 - 大紀元. That Day, I Witnessed the Murder of Bian Zhongyun. The Epoch Times. (2012, August 29). Retrieved from epochtimes.com/b5/10/11/7/n3077378.htm

高天韻：文革「红八月」的冤魂-卞仲耘 - 大紀元. The Wronged Soul of the August During the Cultural Revolution. The Epoch Times. (2017, March 23). Retrieved from epochtimes.com/b5/17/1/19/n8721196.htm